Amy Lane's Blog: Writer's Lane, page 88
August 7, 2016
No Ghosts Were Harmed in this Picture
So...
The stunning Ms. Kim Fielding and I went on a ghost quest today. In our faithful army of questers, we had my children, Squish and ZoomBoy, and her beautiful and quirky daughter, Q.
Also along for the drive was Mate, who is most assuredly the most stalwart of knights, as we put him in charge of the younger knights for most of the quest.
There were no reports of drunken or angry excess or bacchanalian swinging from the light fixtures in Mate's party, so we chose well.
Our first stop was at a wayfaring station known as "Denny's", wherein we partook of food and studied magic maps and made many plans to quest for our quarry. Then we belched heartily and took off for the kindly burgh of Newcastle, a place I visited oft times in my youth, but which assumed an eerie air as we went questing for the undead.
We were met by a sage, a small, withered man with a weather-worn appearance and eyes of the most shocking blue. An Innkeeper by trade, he stood outside his place of business (pictured above) and I spoke unto him:
"Heya--we're looking for the ghost that shows up at Constable Jack's!"
"You mean Victor? He's been DOCUMENTED-- the ghost program from cable, they've been here, we've had a seance, and I've got voice recordings and everything. Sometimes he sits on the rafters and watches us. Feel free to come inside and look at the pictures--they're Newcastle from it's inception. I like to keep it as sort of a museum."
Whereupon I turned to my companion and said, "Hey, now we know how to ask people about ghosts!"
And she said, "Yeah-- that was easy. Whereto now?"
Our next station of the quest was at a historic cemetery in the bustling burgh of Foresthill, population 1,400. (If you've read my prior historical documents, the works of the Little Goddess, you will know that the fey, undead, and terminally furry are approximately three times that population... but they're not mentioned in the census.)
It was here that we searched the clues of the dead and buried, looking for signs of foul misdeeds or unrest within the spiritual plane. What we discovered was thus:
* Most of the residents of this bit of acreage appeared to have been born in the 1860's-- we suspected they were the children of the people who had come to California in the gold rush in their youth.
* At least half of the headstones listed the place of birth of the deceased--because for a long time, nobody was born in this part of the world. No. They left comfortable hamlets with safe topography to venture in covered wagons and on the backs of VERY uncomfortable animals to come hack a living out of the hot red dirt of the summer and the frozen clay of the winter once they discovered that one person in thirty could actually make a living finding gold.
* The women in this part of the world were tough. I mean TOUGH. Where the spouse might be buried at the tender age of fifty or sixty, a lot of the women were buried at 85-100, long AFTER their children had given up the ghost in their forties.
* If you were going to spend your final days haunting your cemetery, you have to admit, the view wasn't bad.
* There was some BAD poetry on the headstones.
* There was also some very wonky family politics going on. For instance, if Morgan was the beloved husband of Sarah, how come his wife Elizabeth is next to him in the plot?
* The family plot that went for the filigree iron work depicting scenes from rural Wales which had vinca in place of ivy or roses was actually sort of sad. As was the the couple who died within a few years of each other in their forties, who's birthplaces were France and Belgium. Oh, my children, were you not far from home.
It was toward the end of these arcane ponderings of the ways of birth, life, and death, that my beloved Mate left the passel of other knights to confer with us and said, "We need to leave before I have to explain the condom on the ground."
Whereupon Sir Kim Fielding and I began to reflect--"What kind of supernatural creature would be conceived in a graveyard?" And both of us began to hunger for our writing implements to speculate, because such a creature would be wondrous indeed.
From the place of resting dead, we then traveled down into the gorge of the many half-dressed sunbathers and river wrestlers, and out again into the land of dashed dreams.
Sutter's Mill.
The place where James Marshall pulled an all nighter with an army of Mormons and Native Americans in an attempt to make the lumber mill go, and in the morning, went, "Hey-- there's shiny stuff in the water!" (Or, more accurately, "Boys, it appears we've found gold.")
And of course, after that, his life went to hell.
We wandered the museums of the Chinese mercantile, the one that showed the ravages of placer mining, and the places the miners kept their criminals.
We did not, alas, hear any of the clanking, murmurings, or rustlings that, our sources did tell us, would indicate members of the ghostly community were visiting.
Our party of knights arrived at the consensus that it was, quite possibly, too damned hot for such going ons.
I myself ventured into a modest establishment of curiosities and came back with two books and a pretty smelling soap (and some cherry candies that were YUM!) Upon consulting the book for ghosts, I learned that James Marshall is said to haunt his own monument, as he should, because he has his own salad. Perhaps you've heard of it?
Indeed, Mr. Marshall WAS a most lonesome loser. All finding gold got him was a group of shadow hunters trying to figure out where he'd find gold again. He started up a number of businesses after the discovery--all of which failed miserably. He was given a pension for finding gold, but he drank it away, and when he was arguing for more money, he dropped his bottle of brandy on the floor of the legislature. He died practically penniless, living off his garden and some blacksmithing work and some other trade that left creosote in his hair and his beard and made people afraid of his stench.
However, when he died people got so excited about honoring him that they shipped wagons full of ice to keep his body from disintegrating in the godless heat, and they decided to haul his literally rotting carcass all the way to Coloma, the place that ruined his life.
And then they erected a statue.
So, yeah. He might have an irritated ghost wandering around, and dude, who could blame him.
So we have pictures of the mercantile, and pictures of some of the mining equipment, and the following conversation:
Me: Did you see that? They tried to break up the ore bearing rock with a big granite stone called a Chilean wheel.
Kim: Did it work?
Me: No-- but they also tried an attare--one of those mill stones that have the donkeys on the four corners who drag a big weight.
Mate: Did it work?
Me: No-- they had to keep using that big waffle stomper thing.(Pictured on the right, with our beautiful blue-haired Sir Kim standing in front.)
Mate: Then what was the point?
Me: The point was, they did try things that might not make their lives suck like hearing that big metal foot smashing for twenty-four hours straight.
The lesser knights frolicked and gamboled about the ruins of the prison and the "hot box" for particularly recalcitrant prisoners, and I mused privately that I wasn't sure which edifice would ho use more spirits: a prison or a church. I shall let my reader have that debate on his or her own ;-)
Notice that there is a picture of the handsome knight Sir Mate to the right. Just to prove I didn't imagine him ;-)
Anyway-- twas at this point that we grew weary of the quest and decided to venture to see the statue of that poor soul who discovered gold. We had as of yet encountered no spirits, but we were still hopeful.
We also wanted to get the hell out of the heat. It was around 95 degrees, and although the lesser knights kept begging to go swimming in the river, we had neither suits nor life jackets, and the current was quite swift and perhaps even life threatening--especially to the three older knights who were a little worried about the younger ones.
(Can you see the lesser knights imprisoned in the jail to my left? Yes-- there might be some ghosts in there--look closely!)
But at last we ventured to the statue, along the states shortest highway--indeed, there was a sign to prove that claim!
At the statue we saw a lovely view, a spooky shadow...
And a ghost, sitting to the left of our little group when Sir Kim took the photo.
The children saw it too ;-)
And then our quest was at an end. We were ready to retire to a public house and partake of delicious food as we recounted our adventures over cool ale. (Or soda-- whichever.)
However, as Kim and I followed the good Knight Mate, and his passel of lesser knights in the Honda conveyance, we saw him execute a detour.
Me: Where's he going?
Kim: Back to the statue? Did we forget something?
Me: Wait-- he's taking a picture of California's shortest state highway.
Kim: That's totally valid. Here-- you take one too!
And so I did.
And then we traveled along Highway 49 until we came a lovely--and aptly named place--called Hangtown. We journeyed to Kim and Q's inn-- a lovely hotel, full of ghosts and haunted elevators, but I will let her tell you of her own adventures HERE. (As soon as her blog is ready, I'll link it.)
And then we partook of pies.
Seriously-- Z-Pie-- like chicken pot pies, but mine had steak and cabernet sauce and Kim's had indian curried chicken and ZoomBoy's had sausage and cheese. They were WONDERFUL.
As was the apple pie ala mode I insisted on sharing with everyone. Because YUM.
And then we were done. Sir Mate had served a fulfilling but trying role as herder of the lesser knights, and he was ready for a nap--and so were our lesser knights--and we parted ways with the wondrous Sir Kim and her adorably quirky Q.
But we had a great time.
I will hunt for ghosts with these people any day.
The stunning Ms. Kim Fielding and I went on a ghost quest today. In our faithful army of questers, we had my children, Squish and ZoomBoy, and her beautiful and quirky daughter, Q.Also along for the drive was Mate, who is most assuredly the most stalwart of knights, as we put him in charge of the younger knights for most of the quest.
There were no reports of drunken or angry excess or bacchanalian swinging from the light fixtures in Mate's party, so we chose well.
Our first stop was at a wayfaring station known as "Denny's", wherein we partook of food and studied magic maps and made many plans to quest for our quarry. Then we belched heartily and took off for the kindly burgh of Newcastle, a place I visited oft times in my youth, but which assumed an eerie air as we went questing for the undead.
We were met by a sage, a small, withered man with a weather-worn appearance and eyes of the most shocking blue. An Innkeeper by trade, he stood outside his place of business (pictured above) and I spoke unto him:"Heya--we're looking for the ghost that shows up at Constable Jack's!"
"You mean Victor? He's been DOCUMENTED-- the ghost program from cable, they've been here, we've had a seance, and I've got voice recordings and everything. Sometimes he sits on the rafters and watches us. Feel free to come inside and look at the pictures--they're Newcastle from it's inception. I like to keep it as sort of a museum."
Whereupon I turned to my companion and said, "Hey, now we know how to ask people about ghosts!" And she said, "Yeah-- that was easy. Whereto now?"
Our next station of the quest was at a historic cemetery in the bustling burgh of Foresthill, population 1,400. (If you've read my prior historical documents, the works of the Little Goddess, you will know that the fey, undead, and terminally furry are approximately three times that population... but they're not mentioned in the census.)
It was here that we searched the clues of the dead and buried, looking for signs of foul misdeeds or unrest within the spiritual plane. What we discovered was thus:
* Most of the residents of this bit of acreage appeared to have been born in the 1860's-- we suspected they were the children of the people who had come to California in the gold rush in their youth.
* At least half of the headstones listed the place of birth of the deceased--because for a long time, nobody was born in this part of the world. No. They left comfortable hamlets with safe topography to venture in covered wagons and on the backs of VERY uncomfortable animals to come hack a living out of the hot red dirt of the summer and the frozen clay of the winter once they discovered that one person in thirty could actually make a living finding gold.* The women in this part of the world were tough. I mean TOUGH. Where the spouse might be buried at the tender age of fifty or sixty, a lot of the women were buried at 85-100, long AFTER their children had given up the ghost in their forties.
* If you were going to spend your final days haunting your cemetery, you have to admit, the view wasn't bad.
* There was some BAD poetry on the headstones.* There was also some very wonky family politics going on. For instance, if Morgan was the beloved husband of Sarah, how come his wife Elizabeth is next to him in the plot?
* The family plot that went for the filigree iron work depicting scenes from rural Wales which had vinca in place of ivy or roses was actually sort of sad. As was the the couple who died within a few years of each other in their forties, who's birthplaces were France and Belgium. Oh, my children, were you not far from home.
It was toward the end of these arcane ponderings of the ways of birth, life, and death, that my beloved Mate left the passel of other knights to confer with us and said, "We need to leave before I have to explain the condom on the ground."
Whereupon Sir Kim Fielding and I began to reflect--"What kind of supernatural creature would be conceived in a graveyard?" And both of us began to hunger for our writing implements to speculate, because such a creature would be wondrous indeed.From the place of resting dead, we then traveled down into the gorge of the many half-dressed sunbathers and river wrestlers, and out again into the land of dashed dreams.
Sutter's Mill.
The place where James Marshall pulled an all nighter with an army of Mormons and Native Americans in an attempt to make the lumber mill go, and in the morning, went, "Hey-- there's shiny stuff in the water!" (Or, more accurately, "Boys, it appears we've found gold.")
And of course, after that, his life went to hell.
We wandered the museums of the Chinese mercantile, the one that showed the ravages of placer mining, and the places the miners kept their criminals.
We did not, alas, hear any of the clanking, murmurings, or rustlings that, our sources did tell us, would indicate members of the ghostly community were visiting.
Our party of knights arrived at the consensus that it was, quite possibly, too damned hot for such going ons. I myself ventured into a modest establishment of curiosities and came back with two books and a pretty smelling soap (and some cherry candies that were YUM!) Upon consulting the book for ghosts, I learned that James Marshall is said to haunt his own monument, as he should, because he has his own salad. Perhaps you've heard of it?
Indeed, Mr. Marshall WAS a most lonesome loser. All finding gold got him was a group of shadow hunters trying to figure out where he'd find gold again. He started up a number of businesses after the discovery--all of which failed miserably. He was given a pension for finding gold, but he drank it away, and when he was arguing for more money, he dropped his bottle of brandy on the floor of the legislature. He died practically penniless, living off his garden and some blacksmithing work and some other trade that left creosote in his hair and his beard and made people afraid of his stench.
However, when he died people got so excited about honoring him that they shipped wagons full of ice to keep his body from disintegrating in the godless heat, and they decided to haul his literally rotting carcass all the way to Coloma, the place that ruined his life.And then they erected a statue.
So, yeah. He might have an irritated ghost wandering around, and dude, who could blame him.
So we have pictures of the mercantile, and pictures of some of the mining equipment, and the following conversation:
Me: Did you see that? They tried to break up the ore bearing rock with a big granite stone called a Chilean wheel.
Kim: Did it work?
Me: No-- but they also tried an attare--one of those mill stones that have the donkeys on the four corners who drag a big weight.
Mate: Did it work?
Me: No-- they had to keep using that big waffle stomper thing.(Pictured on the right, with our beautiful blue-haired Sir Kim standing in front.)
Mate: Then what was the point?
Me: The point was, they did try things that might not make their lives suck like hearing that big metal foot smashing for twenty-four hours straight.
The lesser knights frolicked and gamboled about the ruins of the prison and the "hot box" for particularly recalcitrant prisoners, and I mused privately that I wasn't sure which edifice would ho use more spirits: a prison or a church. I shall let my reader have that debate on his or her own ;-)Notice that there is a picture of the handsome knight Sir Mate to the right. Just to prove I didn't imagine him ;-)
Anyway-- twas at this point that we grew weary of the quest and decided to venture to see the statue of that poor soul who discovered gold. We had as of yet encountered no spirits, but we were still hopeful.
We also wanted to get the hell out of the heat. It was around 95 degrees, and although the lesser knights kept begging to go swimming in the river, we had neither suits nor life jackets, and the current was quite swift and perhaps even life threatening--especially to the three older knights who were a little worried about the younger ones.
(Can you see the lesser knights imprisoned in the jail to my left? Yes-- there might be some ghosts in there--look closely!)
But at last we ventured to the statue, along the states shortest highway--indeed, there was a sign to prove that claim!
At the statue we saw a lovely view, a spooky shadow...
And a ghost, sitting to the left of our little group when Sir Kim took the photo.
The children saw it too ;-)
And then our quest was at an end. We were ready to retire to a public house and partake of delicious food as we recounted our adventures over cool ale. (Or soda-- whichever.)
However, as Kim and I followed the good Knight Mate, and his passel of lesser knights in the Honda conveyance, we saw him execute a detour.
Me: Where's he going?
Kim: Back to the statue? Did we forget something?
Me: Wait-- he's taking a picture of California's shortest state highway.
Kim: That's totally valid. Here-- you take one too!
And so I did.And then we traveled along Highway 49 until we came a lovely--and aptly named place--called Hangtown. We journeyed to Kim and Q's inn-- a lovely hotel, full of ghosts and haunted elevators, but I will let her tell you of her own adventures HERE. (As soon as her blog is ready, I'll link it.)
And then we partook of pies.
Seriously-- Z-Pie-- like chicken pot pies, but mine had steak and cabernet sauce and Kim's had indian curried chicken and ZoomBoy's had sausage and cheese. They were WONDERFUL.
As was the apple pie ala mode I insisted on sharing with everyone. Because YUM.And then we were done. Sir Mate had served a fulfilling but trying role as herder of the lesser knights, and he was ready for a nap--and so were our lesser knights--and we parted ways with the wondrous Sir Kim and her adorably quirky Q.
But we had a great time.
I will hunt for ghosts with these people any day.
Ghost Call
Okay--
So every day, Shyla Colt posts information on paranormal entities and hauntings on Twitter.
And I eat that shit UP. I love stories of hauntings and ghosts and local entities.
And about the same time I was appreciating one of Shyla's posts, Ms. Kim Fielding was posting on FB that she needed to get the hell out of Turlock. (I don't blame her.) I said I was up for a day trip-- we all had stuff to do--but how about up the gold rush trail.
And then we both started talking about ghosts.
So if you need me or Kim tomorrow, we're going to be looking for ghosts, cemeteries, and hauntings in Newcastle, Auburn, Foresthill, and Coloma. You can see some of the haunted sites HERE.
And because Kim and I are odd changling and fey ducks, this idea tickles us BEYOND pink and into blue and purple.
We shall take lots and lots of pictures, and you shall see ghosts! (Or at least we shall imagine ghosts--it's all perspective.)
Also--
A reader sent me THIS QUOTE and said now he HAD to see more of Alex and Dave from Fish Out of Water. I promised that some time soon-- maybe another week or so--I would write a bit of backstory for our two favorite chain-smoking masters of snark and healing, Nurse Alex and Nurse Dave.
So, there you-- something to look forward to!
And now, I' must to bed, the better to look for haunted figures on lonely gold country roads!
So every day, Shyla Colt posts information on paranormal entities and hauntings on Twitter.
And I eat that shit UP. I love stories of hauntings and ghosts and local entities.
And about the same time I was appreciating one of Shyla's posts, Ms. Kim Fielding was posting on FB that she needed to get the hell out of Turlock. (I don't blame her.) I said I was up for a day trip-- we all had stuff to do--but how about up the gold rush trail.
And then we both started talking about ghosts.
So if you need me or Kim tomorrow, we're going to be looking for ghosts, cemeteries, and hauntings in Newcastle, Auburn, Foresthill, and Coloma. You can see some of the haunted sites HERE.
And because Kim and I are odd changling and fey ducks, this idea tickles us BEYOND pink and into blue and purple.
We shall take lots and lots of pictures, and you shall see ghosts! (Or at least we shall imagine ghosts--it's all perspective.)
Also--
A reader sent me THIS QUOTE and said now he HAD to see more of Alex and Dave from Fish Out of Water. I promised that some time soon-- maybe another week or so--I would write a bit of backstory for our two favorite chain-smoking masters of snark and healing, Nurse Alex and Nurse Dave.
So, there you-- something to look forward to!
And now, I' must to bed, the better to look for haunted figures on lonely gold country roads!
August 5, 2016
Some Great Stuff on Other People's Blogs
Okay folks-- on the home front, Mate is EXHAUSTED. He's coaching three teams and leading the league and... Damn. I'll do anything I can to help him but so much of it is stuff only he can do. So lookie me, making him dinner and making sure he eats it and making sure we have his dessert on hand--it's not much, but it's all I got.So there's that.
And I have been writing blog posts for the blog tour, which should be over tomorrow, and for Amy's Lane, which will be out next week, and mostly, I'm just blog posted OUT, at the moment.
So tonight it's going to be a repost of the blog tour, plus the links that should be live tomorrow. And a fun extra special one that I'm going to post first, in case you're a little overdosed on Fish and would like to OD on some candy instead.
Right here you can find the COVER REVEAL FOR TART AND SWEET, THE LAST CANDY MAN STORY. And the blurb. The DSP links should be up around Saturday-- so yay!!!!!
Right here you at Joyfully Jay's, you can find THE SECOND JADE AND MIKE FICLET-- it does contain spoilers, so read at own risk!
And tomorrow, sometime, my interview with PRISM BOOK ALLIANCE is going to be up-- so pop on in there and say hi!
So here's the final countdown for blog stops--and thanks all, for making my first murder mystery a success!
I Fight Authority--Love Bytes
Substitute Teaching--Love Bytes
Mike--MMGoodBook Reviews
Open Sky Book Reviews--The Good Boy
Alpha Books--Why We Like Bad Boys
Long and Short of It Reviews-- A Cat and a Fish
Gay Book Reviews-- I Loved That Cat (Up Saturday, July 30th.)
Spotlight at Shyla Colt's
Embracing My Crazy -- Interview
Bayou Book Junkie (July 30)
Love Bytes Release Day Review
Prism Book Alliance-- Interview (Should go up August 5th)
Joyfully Jay--Some More About Jade
Love Bytes Blog Tour Extra--Some More About Jade and Mike
Grave Tells-- the Grave Tells extra will be up in a couple of weeks. Just know it's coming ;-)
August 3, 2016
And Soccer is Back Again...
Which means we're all a little behind, so it's going to be a quick blog post!
* I've been watching The Killing on Netflix. I've become fascinated with Linden's sweaters. *purrr* *drool* By the way, I understand there's a Ravelry group called "As Seen on TV" where I can go see if there's any patterns for them. Thanks Samurai, my enabling friend!
* I am also most put out with Mate for not letting me watch the next episode because we both had, *sniff* work. Seriously. Who made us grownups?
* Was taking Big T to his job after his dentist appointment the other day, and asking him for directions.
He pointed right and said, "Left!"
"Fucking seriously?"
He laughed. "Weast?"
I laughed at that all the way to his job, even after he told me he got it from SpongeBob.
* On Friday, Morgan at Open Skye Book Reviews is going to host the cover reveal of Tart and Sweet, the last Candy Man book. A few days after that, the book should go on presale-- stay tuned to Open Skye and DSP because woot! Things will be moving fast!
* For those of you wondering at the sudden influx of books out after what feels like long stretches of time between, last year I wrote 260 THOUSAND words that will be released NEXT YEAR. It's made my release schedule a little chaotic, but things are about to become a little more regular!
* The kids went to dance today for the first time in two weeks. It did not go... well. Squish cried. A lot. I really wish I had those kids who did perfect on the soccer field and perfect on the dance floor. But what I have raised are good-reading smart-asses, and since they keep me entertained, I can't be sorry.
But I really hate to see her cry out of sheer frustration.
* I foresee a grooming session in Geoffie's future-- mostly because she can't see ANYTHING at the moment. I'll send pix when I take 'em.!
* I've been watching The Killing on Netflix. I've become fascinated with Linden's sweaters. *purrr* *drool* By the way, I understand there's a Ravelry group called "As Seen on TV" where I can go see if there's any patterns for them. Thanks Samurai, my enabling friend!
* I am also most put out with Mate for not letting me watch the next episode because we both had, *sniff* work. Seriously. Who made us grownups?
* Was taking Big T to his job after his dentist appointment the other day, and asking him for directions.
He pointed right and said, "Left!"
"Fucking seriously?"
He laughed. "Weast?"
I laughed at that all the way to his job, even after he told me he got it from SpongeBob.
* On Friday, Morgan at Open Skye Book Reviews is going to host the cover reveal of Tart and Sweet, the last Candy Man book. A few days after that, the book should go on presale-- stay tuned to Open Skye and DSP because woot! Things will be moving fast! * For those of you wondering at the sudden influx of books out after what feels like long stretches of time between, last year I wrote 260 THOUSAND words that will be released NEXT YEAR. It's made my release schedule a little chaotic, but things are about to become a little more regular!
* The kids went to dance today for the first time in two weeks. It did not go... well. Squish cried. A lot. I really wish I had those kids who did perfect on the soccer field and perfect on the dance floor. But what I have raised are good-reading smart-asses, and since they keep me entertained, I can't be sorry.
But I really hate to see her cry out of sheer frustration.
* I foresee a grooming session in Geoffie's future-- mostly because she can't see ANYTHING at the moment. I'll send pix when I take 'em.!
Diabolism
* What follows is a long, rambling rant about literature, politics, and why we have an ignorant cheetoh winning in the polls. None of my readers are under any obligation to feel this way, and none of my friends are under any obligation to agree. All I ask is that nobody yells at anybody else. That any discussion remains civilized. That nobody goes after me with a torch and a pitchfork and calls me dirty names for trying to figure out how things went so horribly wrong.
So, a long time ago I taught The Crucible, and part of teaching The Crucible was studying Arthur Miller's theory of diabolism.
Given the state of the world, of social media, of the candidate we must not name, I thought diabolism was an interesting thing we might want to study today.
In the story The Crucible, a group of young women are found dancing in the forest, playing at casting love potions. One of the young women, Abigail Williams, had an affair with her employer, and when her employer's wife turned her out--and her lover sided with his wife and said, "This was wrong, it must stop," Abigail turned vengeful. She didn't just want a love potion--she wanted the wife to die.
The girls are discovered--and instead of writing the dance and the witchcraft off as "simple stupid teenaged bullshit", the people who found the girls freaked the fuck out, and one of the girls was so frightened of what her Puritanical community would do to her, that she felt into sort of an hysterical trance. The other girls, frightened because, remember, this community had no forgiveness for anything that deviated from a very strict norm, followed Abigail's lead. They were frightened, they were a little bit guilty, and they wanted to avoid terribly harsh punishment--so they confessed, but they used the age old excuse, "The devil made me do it--and this person is the devil!"
The town was sort of a hotbed of discontent. The pastor wanted a bigger slice of pie, Abigail's uncle wanted his neighbor's land-- one neurotic woman with one child was jealous of the saintly old woman who'd had practically a dozen. Into this sort of rats nest and jealousy come these hysterical girls, calling out witches, saying, "This scary old woman made me snort a toad!" and the more manipulative grownups start to think.
"Hey--I want these things on the material plane. I want revenge. I want stuff I'm not supposed to want--if I can steer this swarm of cannibalistic starlings in one direction or the other, I can get some of that stuff."
And the judges listening to these complaints are like, "Well, of course everybody's telling the truth. Lying puts their mortal soul in danger--why would they lie? We should kill the people they accuse immediately, because we will tolerate and forgive no deviation from a very strict norm! The only way we will know if they are cured of their sickness is if they accuse somebody else, and then we can threaten THEM with death!"
And the judges--the people who should have known better, missed the hole in the plan.
The hole in the plan is that everybody--the girls, the townspeople, the people accused who then turned into the accusers--all of those people believed that there was no forgiveness for deviating from a very strict norm.
Why yes, I've said that a couple of times now.
It's important.
I'm on a diet-- Weight Watchers. And the thing about diets is that everybody knows how to lose weight. Eliminate X, Y, and Z from the diet, and only eat A, B, and C. The problem? X, Y, and Z are YUMMY AS FUCK, and A, B, and C are tasty, but they don't have the sugar and fat that turns us all into junkies sucking soda and chocolate chip cookies. The thing that Weight Watchers--and most successful food programs--has discovered, is the thing that the judges of the Salem Witch trials never figured out.
If our line in the sand -- the line demarcating good and evil, the line that claims there is NO FORGIVENESS FOR DEVIATING FROM A VERY STRICT NORM is too harsh and too insurmountable, everybody falls in some way. If we can't have a chocolate chip cookie once in a while, we end up eyeballs deep in Oreos and Hagen Daas, daring our nearest and dearest to come one step closer and nibble a corner of our stash.
It's a byproduct of being human.
The minute you declare that all action on B SIDE OF THE FENCE is not only wrong, it's unforgivable and there is no learning curve and there is no margin for human error, you have effectively determined that everybody--every man, woman, and child of the human race is FUCKING GUILTY AS FUCKING SIN.
Because we're all fallible.
You're not allowed to be petty? That damns us to hell?
Well fuck--I envied my girlfriend because she's way more talented than I am, and I'm fucking doomed.
You're not allowed to be lustful? That damns us to hell?
I enjoyed relations with my husband. I'm fucking doomed.
You're not allowed to be slothful? That damns us to hell?
I will cut a bitch who tries to wake me from my nap. I"m fucking doomed.
You name a sin, thundered about on a pulpit--or on a Twitter thread--and people have, consciously or unconsciously, committed it.
There are two things you can do if you've committed that many sins.
The first--always my option--forgive yourself, forgive others, and try to do better.
The second--and the option found in The Crucible and on social media-- is to believe you're damned for all eternity and fucked up the ass with a rusty sword of justice.
With the first, there is gentleness, education, apology and forgiveness, humanity and a better way.
With the second, there is "Fuck it, I'm screwed anyway, I might as well dick with all the people who pissed me off anyway."
Which is what happened in The Crucible. By the end of The Crucible--and the Salem Witch trials actually-- they had a problem with cows. All of the cows were wandering around the town, because so many of the townspeople were locked up for perceived evils that there was nobody to take care of them. Children were wandering the streets because their parents had been accused and were awaiting trial, because by the rules of the Puritans, it was better to let the children starve than it was to let free a couple of puzzled churchgoers who didn't understand that skipping church a couple of times a year didn't really damn them to hell, and they had no guilt to speak of.
If there is no rule of forgiveness, no guidelines of tolerance, everybody is guilty.
Everybody.
Which is why people are right now saying, "Well, one candidate is as good as another."
I saw an interesting graphic. A credited non-partisan news assessment source (Politifact) assessed both candidates in the American presidential election. One of the candidate--the GOP candidate--was found to be anywhere from lying a little to lying a lot over 75% of the time. The other candidate, the Democratic candidate, was found to be lying less than 15% of the time.
And yet the Democratic candidate had been branded the dishonest one.
Why?
Why would an entire country allow themselves to be so mislead? (Or at least half the country.)
Because the big fat orange faced liar is speaking for everybody in the country going, "Fuck it, I've sinned anyway, I might as well pick the guy with my sin!"
Greed? Narcissism? Intolerance? Xenophobia? These are the things that this candidate has come to represent. Well, most of mankind feels these things at some point in time. And then, a lot of us remember our education in the world, we remember our duties as citizens, we remember our ability to master complex functions, and we overcome these horrible parts of ourselves and we move on to do productive things with our time and our beautiful human potential.
But the people following this candidate haven't done that. They've sinned. They're fucked. Let's go with this guy who makes a game out of being an asshole, since obviously all mankind is an asshole. Just like with the witch trials, any deviation from a very strict norm means you're going to hell. Half our population is following the candidate who is proud and excited to be going to hell.
The other half is running around outraged because this guy is leading.
But let's think of this outrage for a moment.
What if we hadn't allowed our outrage to rule us, even from the very beginning.
What if the candidate had opened his mouth, said something obscene, and instead of going, "Oh my God you just said this horrible thing you fucker!" we'd said, "I'm not sure if you realize this, but here are the ways this offended 80% of the population, and here is why this philosophy is bad for the country."
Think about it. Gentle teaching. Consistently. How long would we have needed to do that before he would have just looked like the spoiled child he is, and he would have been yesterday's news?
Instead, we were outraged, consistently. And like any shrieking brat, he went, "I'm fucked, everything I do is wrong, let's see how much attention I can get like that!"
And here we are. On the cusp of electing a shrieking brat into a very dangerous position, because the rest of the world is pretty sure THEY'RE fucked because everything THEY do seems to be wrong.
Social media works as a binary code--Twitter has 140 characters to determine if a person is guilty or not guilty.
The judges who convicted people to hang in Salem had the same code--guilty or not guilty.
The United States Senator who ruined tens of thousands of lives by blacklisting them had the same code--guilty or not guilty.
When are we going to start figuring out that screaming "GUILTY MOTHER FUCKER!" in someone's face doesn't work.
It's never worked.
It's left cows to wander the roadways and orphaned children, but it has never done anything besides turn the accused into the accuser, simply to escape wrath.
Now I'm not saying we all turn to the scary xenophobic bigoted narcissist who may soon hold nuclear codes in his hand and say, "Oh, Mr. Trump, I LOVE you, try not to be a scary xenophobic bigoted narcissist and kill us all, okay?"
But I am saying spazzing the fuck out every time he says something that appalls us is not working.
Even worse, it's making us numb and bitter, like someone who drank aloe lidocaine tea.
And it's making our country sick.
Maybe instead of screeching every time someone crosses the inevitable line of being human, we have a discussion instead of a witch hunt?
Maybe we set out with education in our hearts instead of judgment, and we try to make the world a better, more positive place instead of a place where shrieking crows feast on one another's guts with glee?
The end of The Crucible was that 19 people died and the crowd fell apart.
The end of McCarthyism was that tens of thousands of lives were ruined and the baby boomers rebelled against all those terrible rules with self-indulgence that is killing us even now.
Diabolism benefits nobody, and it harms a great many.
There has got to be a better way.
So, a long time ago I taught The Crucible, and part of teaching The Crucible was studying Arthur Miller's theory of diabolism.
Given the state of the world, of social media, of the candidate we must not name, I thought diabolism was an interesting thing we might want to study today.
In the story The Crucible, a group of young women are found dancing in the forest, playing at casting love potions. One of the young women, Abigail Williams, had an affair with her employer, and when her employer's wife turned her out--and her lover sided with his wife and said, "This was wrong, it must stop," Abigail turned vengeful. She didn't just want a love potion--she wanted the wife to die.
The girls are discovered--and instead of writing the dance and the witchcraft off as "simple stupid teenaged bullshit", the people who found the girls freaked the fuck out, and one of the girls was so frightened of what her Puritanical community would do to her, that she felt into sort of an hysterical trance. The other girls, frightened because, remember, this community had no forgiveness for anything that deviated from a very strict norm, followed Abigail's lead. They were frightened, they were a little bit guilty, and they wanted to avoid terribly harsh punishment--so they confessed, but they used the age old excuse, "The devil made me do it--and this person is the devil!"
The town was sort of a hotbed of discontent. The pastor wanted a bigger slice of pie, Abigail's uncle wanted his neighbor's land-- one neurotic woman with one child was jealous of the saintly old woman who'd had practically a dozen. Into this sort of rats nest and jealousy come these hysterical girls, calling out witches, saying, "This scary old woman made me snort a toad!" and the more manipulative grownups start to think.
"Hey--I want these things on the material plane. I want revenge. I want stuff I'm not supposed to want--if I can steer this swarm of cannibalistic starlings in one direction or the other, I can get some of that stuff."
And the judges listening to these complaints are like, "Well, of course everybody's telling the truth. Lying puts their mortal soul in danger--why would they lie? We should kill the people they accuse immediately, because we will tolerate and forgive no deviation from a very strict norm! The only way we will know if they are cured of their sickness is if they accuse somebody else, and then we can threaten THEM with death!"
And the judges--the people who should have known better, missed the hole in the plan.
The hole in the plan is that everybody--the girls, the townspeople, the people accused who then turned into the accusers--all of those people believed that there was no forgiveness for deviating from a very strict norm.
Why yes, I've said that a couple of times now.
It's important.
I'm on a diet-- Weight Watchers. And the thing about diets is that everybody knows how to lose weight. Eliminate X, Y, and Z from the diet, and only eat A, B, and C. The problem? X, Y, and Z are YUMMY AS FUCK, and A, B, and C are tasty, but they don't have the sugar and fat that turns us all into junkies sucking soda and chocolate chip cookies. The thing that Weight Watchers--and most successful food programs--has discovered, is the thing that the judges of the Salem Witch trials never figured out.
If our line in the sand -- the line demarcating good and evil, the line that claims there is NO FORGIVENESS FOR DEVIATING FROM A VERY STRICT NORM is too harsh and too insurmountable, everybody falls in some way. If we can't have a chocolate chip cookie once in a while, we end up eyeballs deep in Oreos and Hagen Daas, daring our nearest and dearest to come one step closer and nibble a corner of our stash.
It's a byproduct of being human.
The minute you declare that all action on B SIDE OF THE FENCE is not only wrong, it's unforgivable and there is no learning curve and there is no margin for human error, you have effectively determined that everybody--every man, woman, and child of the human race is FUCKING GUILTY AS FUCKING SIN.
Because we're all fallible.
You're not allowed to be petty? That damns us to hell?
Well fuck--I envied my girlfriend because she's way more talented than I am, and I'm fucking doomed.
You're not allowed to be lustful? That damns us to hell?
I enjoyed relations with my husband. I'm fucking doomed.
You're not allowed to be slothful? That damns us to hell?
I will cut a bitch who tries to wake me from my nap. I"m fucking doomed.
You name a sin, thundered about on a pulpit--or on a Twitter thread--and people have, consciously or unconsciously, committed it.
There are two things you can do if you've committed that many sins.
The first--always my option--forgive yourself, forgive others, and try to do better.
The second--and the option found in The Crucible and on social media-- is to believe you're damned for all eternity and fucked up the ass with a rusty sword of justice.
With the first, there is gentleness, education, apology and forgiveness, humanity and a better way.
With the second, there is "Fuck it, I'm screwed anyway, I might as well dick with all the people who pissed me off anyway."
Which is what happened in The Crucible. By the end of The Crucible--and the Salem Witch trials actually-- they had a problem with cows. All of the cows were wandering around the town, because so many of the townspeople were locked up for perceived evils that there was nobody to take care of them. Children were wandering the streets because their parents had been accused and were awaiting trial, because by the rules of the Puritans, it was better to let the children starve than it was to let free a couple of puzzled churchgoers who didn't understand that skipping church a couple of times a year didn't really damn them to hell, and they had no guilt to speak of.
If there is no rule of forgiveness, no guidelines of tolerance, everybody is guilty.
Everybody.
Which is why people are right now saying, "Well, one candidate is as good as another."
I saw an interesting graphic. A credited non-partisan news assessment source (Politifact) assessed both candidates in the American presidential election. One of the candidate--the GOP candidate--was found to be anywhere from lying a little to lying a lot over 75% of the time. The other candidate, the Democratic candidate, was found to be lying less than 15% of the time.
And yet the Democratic candidate had been branded the dishonest one.
Why?
Why would an entire country allow themselves to be so mislead? (Or at least half the country.)
Because the big fat orange faced liar is speaking for everybody in the country going, "Fuck it, I've sinned anyway, I might as well pick the guy with my sin!"
Greed? Narcissism? Intolerance? Xenophobia? These are the things that this candidate has come to represent. Well, most of mankind feels these things at some point in time. And then, a lot of us remember our education in the world, we remember our duties as citizens, we remember our ability to master complex functions, and we overcome these horrible parts of ourselves and we move on to do productive things with our time and our beautiful human potential.
But the people following this candidate haven't done that. They've sinned. They're fucked. Let's go with this guy who makes a game out of being an asshole, since obviously all mankind is an asshole. Just like with the witch trials, any deviation from a very strict norm means you're going to hell. Half our population is following the candidate who is proud and excited to be going to hell.
The other half is running around outraged because this guy is leading.
But let's think of this outrage for a moment.
What if we hadn't allowed our outrage to rule us, even from the very beginning.
What if the candidate had opened his mouth, said something obscene, and instead of going, "Oh my God you just said this horrible thing you fucker!" we'd said, "I'm not sure if you realize this, but here are the ways this offended 80% of the population, and here is why this philosophy is bad for the country."
Think about it. Gentle teaching. Consistently. How long would we have needed to do that before he would have just looked like the spoiled child he is, and he would have been yesterday's news?
Instead, we were outraged, consistently. And like any shrieking brat, he went, "I'm fucked, everything I do is wrong, let's see how much attention I can get like that!"
And here we are. On the cusp of electing a shrieking brat into a very dangerous position, because the rest of the world is pretty sure THEY'RE fucked because everything THEY do seems to be wrong.
Social media works as a binary code--Twitter has 140 characters to determine if a person is guilty or not guilty.
The judges who convicted people to hang in Salem had the same code--guilty or not guilty.
The United States Senator who ruined tens of thousands of lives by blacklisting them had the same code--guilty or not guilty.
When are we going to start figuring out that screaming "GUILTY MOTHER FUCKER!" in someone's face doesn't work.
It's never worked.
It's left cows to wander the roadways and orphaned children, but it has never done anything besides turn the accused into the accuser, simply to escape wrath.
Now I'm not saying we all turn to the scary xenophobic bigoted narcissist who may soon hold nuclear codes in his hand and say, "Oh, Mr. Trump, I LOVE you, try not to be a scary xenophobic bigoted narcissist and kill us all, okay?"
But I am saying spazzing the fuck out every time he says something that appalls us is not working.
Even worse, it's making us numb and bitter, like someone who drank aloe lidocaine tea.
And it's making our country sick.
Maybe instead of screeching every time someone crosses the inevitable line of being human, we have a discussion instead of a witch hunt?
Maybe we set out with education in our hearts instead of judgment, and we try to make the world a better, more positive place instead of a place where shrieking crows feast on one another's guts with glee?
The end of The Crucible was that 19 people died and the crowd fell apart.
The end of McCarthyism was that tens of thousands of lives were ruined and the baby boomers rebelled against all those terrible rules with self-indulgence that is killing us even now.
Diabolism benefits nobody, and it harms a great many.
There has got to be a better way.
August 1, 2016
*Kermit Flail Monday* August!
Okay-- first of all, whew! Did we all survive? Heat wave and political conventions and hey, hello, RWA?
Yeah-- it's been a loooooonnnngg summer, so we have something of a modest *Kermit Flail* for you today--but that's okay. A lot of us are wrapping up our summer reading (I did spectacularly well on this, I am surprised) and getting ready to get clothes for the kids to go back to school. (I don't know if ZoomBoy needs more neon/stretchy nylon shorts. I'm thinking it might be a quick trip to Old Navy.)
But that doesn't mean there's not time to slip one or two more romances in-- Shyla Colt's Resurrecting Ghosts looks taut and hot--and bad boys, let's face it, we all love 'em! The Dreamspun Desire from Rick R. Reed and Vivien Dean brings back some of my favorite beach reads, the sweet category romances that still make me all giddy inside. And for those of us who have a jones for fantasy, well, Carole Cummings's Wolf's Own has been recommended to me over and over again--it's been on my TBR list for AGES, and if you buy it and read it you need to get back to me and kick my ass into gear so I can read it too!!! Oh, and the lovely and talented (and unfortunately injured--writer down!) Alexa Milne gave us a haunting story about coming home--the cover is stunning, and just... mmmm....
Oh, and yeah-- I had a release this month-- can you tell?
So yeah-- a modest offering this time around, but what we've got is awesome, so let's give it a big hand, okay?
YAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAY!!!!!
Resurrecting Ghosts
by Shyla Colt
Ruthie Gregg was the independent woman who had everything together. A homeowner with a successful job in advertising, and a busy social life, she never wanted to get serious with a man. Things with Kings of Chaos member, Skull, were meant to be fun and light.
Then she made the mistake of catching feelings without discussing their relationship status. Misunderstandings and indiscretions lead her to call things off. But life is a cruel mistress who wasn't done uprooting her perfectly managed existence.
To get the life she’s dreamed of, she must put her past behind her, and fight for her future with a man who just may be the love of her life. Tritt “Skull” Matthews was a man who wanted nothing to do with love. After watching the four letter word and mental illness destroy his family, he opted to take the path of a permanent bachelor. His brothers in the Kings of Chaos MC were all the family he needed until he took up with Ruthie. The mouthy red head with her vintage style and a strong back bone derailed his plans. When denial, drinking, and self-sabotage doesn’t shake her from his soul, he starts a new mission, to get her back at any cost.
Happiness is within their reach if they're willing to lay the resurrected ghosts in their lives to rest. The things they fear the most holds them captive in invisible chains. Breaking free is imperative, lest they are doomed to repeat the past.
Buy at Amazon
Stranded With Desire
by Vivien Dean and Rick R. Reed
When their plane crashed, their desire took flight.
CEO Maine Braxton and his invaluable assistant, Colby, don’t realize they share a deep secret: they’re in love—with each other. That secret may have never come to light but for a terrifying plane crash in the Cascade Mountains that changes everything.
In a struggle for survival, the two men brave bears, storms, and a life-threatening flood to make it out of the wilderness alive. The proximity to death makes them realize the importance of love over propriety. Confessions emerge. Passions ignite. They escape the wilds renewed and openly in love.
When they return to civilization, though, forces are already plotting to snuff out their short-lived romance and ruin everything both have worked so hard to achieve.
Buy At DSP
Buy At Amazon
Buy At ARe
Wolf's-own Bundle
by Carole Cummings
Wolf’s-own: the four-book fantasy epic featuring Fen Jacin-rei—Incendiary, Catalyst, Once-Untouchable—and Kamen Malick, who is determined to decode the intrigue that surrounds him. Fen’s mind is host to the spirits of long-dead magicians, and Fen’s fate should be one of madness and ignoble death. So how is it Fen lives, carrying out shadowy vengeance for his subjugated people and protecting the family he loves? With a threat all too close and a secret he needs to explain, Malick is at odds with those who should be his allies, and no matter how much he wants to protect Fen, it may be more than he can manage when he’s trying to keep them alive.
Returning Home
by Alexa Milne
You can never escape from yourself.
When Darach McNaughton returns to his home town, the one thing he isn’t looking for is love. But when he meets the mysterious Brice Drummond, his investigative instinct isn’t the only thing aroused.
After a gang beats Brice Drummond, leaves him for dead, and needing to use a wheelchair, he ends up in a witness protection program. His only company is a beautiful cat aptly named Princess. He creates beautiful pieces of art, but allows no one into his life—until a handsome policeman appears out of nowhere.
On a snowy night, Darach McNaughton returns a crying cat to its owner and is immediately curious about the beautiful man with the tattoos. Bit by bit, Darach uncovers the shocking truth about Brice’s history. Can he get past what he discovers? Can Brice let someone into his life? Or will the past catch up with them both and tear their fledgling love apart?
Buy At Amazon
Buy At DSPP
Buy At Amazon
Fish Out of Water
by Amy Lane
PI Jackson Rivers grew up on the mean streets of Del Paso Heights—and he doesn’t trust cops, even though he was one. When the man he thinks of as his brother is accused of killing a police officer in an obviously doctored crime, Jackson will move heaven and earth to keep Kaden and his family safe.
Defense attorney Ellery Cramer grew up with the proverbial silver spoon in his mouth, but that hasn’t stopped him from crushing on street-smart, swaggering Jackson Rivers for the past six years. But when Jackson asks for his help defending Kaden Cameron, Ellery is out of his depth—and not just with guarded, prickly Jackson. Kaden wasn’t just framed, he was framed by crooked cops, and the conspiracy goes higher than Ellery dares reach—and deep into Jackson’s troubled past.
Both men are soon enmeshed in the mystery of who killed the cop in the minimart, and engaged in a race against time to clear Kaden’s name. But when the mystery is solved and the bullets stop flying, they’ll have to deal with their personal complications… and an attraction that’s spiraled out of control.
Buy at Amazon
Buy at DSP
Blog Tour
I Fight Authority--Love Bytes
Substitute Teaching--Love Bytes
Mike--MMGoodBook Reviews
Open Sky Book Reviews--The Good Boy
Alpha Books--Why We Like Bad Boys
Long and Short of It Reviews-- A Cat and a Fish
Gay Book Reviews-- I Loved That Cat (Up Saturday, July 30th.)
Spotlight at Shyla Colt's
Embracing My Crazy -- Interview
Bayou Book Junkie (July 30)
Love Bytes Release Day Review
Pending Stops Waiting for Links
Prism Book Alliance-- Interview (August 1st)
Joyfully Jay--Some More About Jade (August 4th)
Love Bytes Blog Tour Extra--Some More About Jade and Mike (August 1)
Grave Tells
Poncho and Baseball
Okay-- first of all, we went to a baseball game tonight. Mate lucked into some box seats from work--and I have to admit-- the view was SWEET!The RiverCats won definitively-- 15-1-- and I got to see two professional baseball players from the Salt Lake City Bees actually run into each other while the ball dropped between them, I shit you not.
And since the weather was warm and happy instead of kill-you-dead-with-malice, being outside wasn't a hardship either.By the way-- the following two things actually happened while we were there.
A. ZoomBoy said, "Give me those things, they'll help me catch balls!" And then he posed like that. I did not ask what kind of balls, neither did I want to know.B. During the dance cam I stood up to dance with the kids, forgetting that we were sitting outside of BOX SEATS. Which means that three drunk old farts got to watch me shake my ass. I realized what I'd done and sat down--completely mortified--until it hit me. I'd heard them talking politics: they were Trump supporters. I almost stood up again and told them to kiss it while they were there.
But it was overall family fun-- whee!
And second of all--
I finished this project for a friend's kid.
Now knitters and crocheters often get asked to make things--and if you've asked me for this, please don't feel bad. The thing is, people usually offer money, or say, "You could make money on that!" and although they mean well, I don't think they understand exactly what they're asking for, especially from people who don't want to do this for a living. This poncho is made of worsted weight yarn--that's a 4 in thickness on a scale of 0-6, so it's sort of your average thick yarn. (These people live where it gets cold--seriously.) It is of medium difficulty--I used a couple of expert's tricks to make it go faster, and I did something whip-spiffy on the bottom edging, because they didn't want fringe, and it just needed that extra something. I designed it myself, using knowledge accrued of over 18 years teaching myself to knit and crochet, studying patterns and while not making everything I loved, figuring out how to make it if I wanted to. If I'd used a finer yarn, or a more difficult square, I could have increased the difficulty--and the time to finish--by about 250%. I didn't want to do this--I wanted her to have it for the fall, when it starts to get cold.
I started it in early May.
It's been my solid go-to project for three months, and I've worked on it--sometimes intensely, sometimes desultorily, probably 5-7 nights a week, because that's how often I get to sit in front of the television when I'm home. When I'm not home I work on smaller projects like hats and socks--you've all seen me at cons, I'm sure.
All told, this is the equivalent of a blanket--especially with the hood--and it took approximately 14 skeins of yarn at 3 1/2 ounces a skein. (That's over 3 lbs. of yarn.) I used a moderately priced wool/acrylic blend with pretty nylon accents (why it looks like confetti) that washes easy and runs about $8 a skein-- so this cost me $112 to make.
Most people making something like that charge double or triple the material cost if they're charging, so that's anywhere from $225-$340 if you're buying it off ETSY.
But I wouldn't make it to sell. I spent 3 months of my very limited leisure time to make this, because I love my friend and I love her kid--and some people can sit and knit and crochet for hours at a time for money, but I can't. If I'm not using yarn to control my mental squirrel, I have to love the yarn, love the feel, love the color, love the pattern, and be happy that it's going to someone I care about. I once made a friend a blanket as a going away present (it was a super quick pattern--two strands of yarn, big hook, easy ripple) and she asked me if I could make her another one. She'd pay me.I cannot TELL you how much I hated that second blanket. It practically burned my hands.
But I loved making this--it makes me really happy. I hope my friend's daughter likes it as much as Squish does.
So there you go-- some things to know about handcrafted items that people who don't make them don't often know. Just remember that when you say things like, "Oh, you could do that for money!" it's not always the compliment you think it is. (I don't take offense--but I usually do tell the blanket story.) And remember when you're looking things up on ETSY that "Oh my God, that cost so much!" is really not as much as you think it does when you're counting materials and labor.
And remember that if someone makes you something and gives it to you, they did it out of love, and for no other reason, and if it doesn't fit entirely, or it's not quite your color? Well, you may want to think very carefully about how you explain that to your knitter or crocheter. All of those funny movies and TV shows about, "Be sure to wear that for your Aunt Mabel!" do make us laugh-- but they're also very human. We know Aunt Mabel worked her ass off to make that damned ugly sweater--it needs to be frickin' seen!
Or at least loved, the way Aunt Mabel loved you when she made it.
July 31, 2016
A Few Random Things
First of all, here are the blog tour updates--forgive me if I've missed any:
Available at Amazon
Available at DSP
Available at ARe
I Fight Authority--Love Bytes
Substitute Teaching--Love Bytes
Mike--MMGoodBook Reviews
Open Sky Book Reviews--The Good Boy
Alpha Books--Why We Like Bad Boys
Long and Short of It Reviews-- A Cat and a Fish
Gay Book Reviews-- I Loved That Cat (Up Saturday, July 30th.)
Spotlight at Shyla Colt's
Embracing My Crazy -- Interview
Bayou Book Junkie (July 30)
Love Bytes Release Day Review
*whew* Now that THAT'S done, thank you to EVERYBODY, both past and future, for hosting me!
Now, onto the random!
* Squish spent the night at Berry Jello's house, and Jello braided her hair. I mean, twin horsetail braids, that probably took her forEVER. Squish loved it, but guys--it takes SO LONG. *shakes head* I'm going to be spending a VERY long time braiding hair this year.
* While Squish was gone, ZB and I went to the pool to swim and then out with my friend Trina for a second viewing of Tarzan, for Alskar reasons. Two things about this:
A. Trina is the BEST GROWNUP EVER to take to movies. She's not afraid to laugh or to jump or be startled or afraid--I LOVE that in a movie friend. The people who roll their eyes because they're too cool for the movie make me a little sad--but Trina made me excited to see the movie TWICE.
B. At one point in the movie, she turned to me and said, "Amy, this had better end well." I promised her it would, but I was remembering Vulnerable, Immortal, and The Bells of Times Square the whole time--and yanno? I felt a little bad.
* I was sitting at my computer, all excited about working this morning when I got swamped over with a wave of exhaustion. Just... SMACKED, like a freight train. It was SO WIERD. But the nap I took afterward--that was pretty awesome. Just saying. Maybe I've been a little keyed up about this whole release thing, because damn, that was a good nap.
* Mate and I went to see the fourth Bourne movie, and I loved it. LOVED it. But the funny thing is (and nobody smack me for this) we were both talking about the Jeremy Renner Bourne movie and you know something? We both loved it best. We decided that the Jeremy Renner character was designed to be a little less deadly and a little more human, and the Rachel Wiezs character was his perfect foil, because they both DID really horrible things at the behest of their government, but they were both pawns. The minute they started thinking outside the box was the minute they became better human beings.
Anyway-- the fourth one was great and I thoroughly enjoyed the series--but the Jeremy Renner one held sort of a sweet place in my heart. Saying.
* And that's about it--so far, most of my fans have enjoyed Fish--and I'm so very grateful. For the folks who feel like I'm being a little hard on the police? Well, I have the feeling Jackson and Ellery are going to have to build some bridges in the next one. (My friend Karen says I have to--at this point, if I get stopped for a speeding ticket in my hometown, I'm TOAST.)
Oh--you heard the words "next one"?
Didn't I mention that?
That there's going to be a series?
Yeah. Sort of like potato chips and Bourne, I can't stop with just one.
Available at Amazon
Available at DSP
Available at ARe
I Fight Authority--Love Bytes
Substitute Teaching--Love Bytes
Mike--MMGoodBook Reviews
Open Sky Book Reviews--The Good Boy
Alpha Books--Why We Like Bad Boys
Long and Short of It Reviews-- A Cat and a Fish
Gay Book Reviews-- I Loved That Cat (Up Saturday, July 30th.)
Spotlight at Shyla Colt's
Embracing My Crazy -- Interview
Bayou Book Junkie (July 30)
Love Bytes Release Day Review
*whew* Now that THAT'S done, thank you to EVERYBODY, both past and future, for hosting me!
Now, onto the random!
* Squish spent the night at Berry Jello's house, and Jello braided her hair. I mean, twin horsetail braids, that probably took her forEVER. Squish loved it, but guys--it takes SO LONG. *shakes head* I'm going to be spending a VERY long time braiding hair this year.
* While Squish was gone, ZB and I went to the pool to swim and then out with my friend Trina for a second viewing of Tarzan, for Alskar reasons. Two things about this:
A. Trina is the BEST GROWNUP EVER to take to movies. She's not afraid to laugh or to jump or be startled or afraid--I LOVE that in a movie friend. The people who roll their eyes because they're too cool for the movie make me a little sad--but Trina made me excited to see the movie TWICE.
B. At one point in the movie, she turned to me and said, "Amy, this had better end well." I promised her it would, but I was remembering Vulnerable, Immortal, and The Bells of Times Square the whole time--and yanno? I felt a little bad.
* I was sitting at my computer, all excited about working this morning when I got swamped over with a wave of exhaustion. Just... SMACKED, like a freight train. It was SO WIERD. But the nap I took afterward--that was pretty awesome. Just saying. Maybe I've been a little keyed up about this whole release thing, because damn, that was a good nap.
* Mate and I went to see the fourth Bourne movie, and I loved it. LOVED it. But the funny thing is (and nobody smack me for this) we were both talking about the Jeremy Renner Bourne movie and you know something? We both loved it best. We decided that the Jeremy Renner character was designed to be a little less deadly and a little more human, and the Rachel Wiezs character was his perfect foil, because they both DID really horrible things at the behest of their government, but they were both pawns. The minute they started thinking outside the box was the minute they became better human beings.
Anyway-- the fourth one was great and I thoroughly enjoyed the series--but the Jeremy Renner one held sort of a sweet place in my heart. Saying.
* And that's about it--so far, most of my fans have enjoyed Fish--and I'm so very grateful. For the folks who feel like I'm being a little hard on the police? Well, I have the feeling Jackson and Ellery are going to have to build some bridges in the next one. (My friend Karen says I have to--at this point, if I get stopped for a speeding ticket in my hometown, I'm TOAST.)
Oh--you heard the words "next one"?
Didn't I mention that?
That there's going to be a series?
Yeah. Sort of like potato chips and Bourne, I can't stop with just one.
July 29, 2016
Happy Release Day and Blog Tour for Fish Out of Water
Fish Out of Waterby Amy Lane
PI Jackson Rivers grew up on the mean streets of Del Paso Heights—and he doesn’t trust cops, even though he was one. When the man he thinks of as his brother is accused of killing a police officer in an obviously doctored crime, Jackson will move heaven and earth to keep Kaden and his family safe.
Defense attorney Ellery Cramer grew up with the proverbial silver spoon in his mouth, but that hasn’t stopped him from crushing on street-smart, swaggering Jackson Rivers for the past six years. But when Jackson asks for his help defending Kaden Cameron, Ellery is out of his depth—and not just with guarded, prickly Jackson. Kaden wasn’t just framed, he was framed by crooked cops, and the conspiracy goes higher than Ellery dares reach—and deep into Jackson’s troubled past.
Fish Out of Water is Available from
Amazon
Dreamspinner Press
All Romance e-book
Blog Tour for Fish Out of Water--
*Note-- This is not the definitive list--I will continue to add to this and repost it as the tour goes on. These are just the people who have reported to me with links so far. Not all of these go live at the same time. *sigh* Remember that post about the assistant? Yeah. That.
I Fight Authority--Love Bytes
Substitute Teaching--Love Bytes
Mike--MMGoodBook Reviews
Open Sky Book Reviews--The Good Boy
Alpha Books--Why We Like Bad Boys
Long and Short of It Reviews-- A Cat and a Fish
Gay Book Reviews-- I Loved That Cat (Up Saturday, July 30th.)
Spotlight at Shyla Colt's
Pending Stops Waiting for Links:
Embracing My Crazy -- Interview
Prism Book Alliance-- Interview (August 1st)
Joyfully Jay--Some More About Jade (August 4th)
Love Bytes (Official Blog Tour)--Some More About Jade and Mike (August 1)
Grave Tells
Bayou Book Junkie (July 30)
And now a few words about Fish...
I've said this on a couple of the blog sites for the tour, but I'll tell it again here for good measure:
I don't like authority.
A lot of this stems back to my childhood when my father got pulled over a lot. It was the early seventies, and he was a tall scary looking guy with curly hair and a beard. (Big T is his spitting image actually, but Big T's hair is a lot more red.)
My dad drove a primer green Volkswagen Bus-- customized in a lot of ways, including green and white American flags which he used as curtains. (They were a symbol of peace, and you know, I sort of wish we had some of those now!) It was a great vehicle for taking kids camping when there were no seat belt or safety seat laws and you didn't care about seeing the pavement rush under your foot whenever you used the clutch, and it was a cop magnet. CHP, local police--hell, we even got cased once by the FBI.
Two things saved my dad from being incarcerated for driving as a hippie that last time. One of them was me. The other was the deaf Dalmatian dog protecting me. The third thing might have been that when they asked him where my mother was, he had to say the looney bin, so yes, that was me again, they just didn't want to bother with the kid in the back.
That sort of thing leaves a mark.
I have rarely trusted policemen.
There have been some memorable exceptions.
Once I got out of the theatre after breaking down the set to find my fuse had blown and I had no headlights, the local Sheriff who's daughter had been in my graduating class drove in front of me with a spotlight, so I could get home at two a.m. and my dad could fix it in the morning.
Yes, he knew who my dad was. Yes, he knew he worked on cars. Yes, the town was that small.
My husband's assistant coach for four years of coaching soccer was a policeman, and a genuinely nice (if scary competitive) guy.
Once I was standing in my classroom and a CHP officer walked in, fully dressed in uniform, looking stern. I looked at him suspiciously, and said, "Who are you here for?" totally prepared to advocate for the poor kid who would be locked in this asshole's grasp.
"You, Ms. Lane--Don't you remember me? I graduated four years ago!"
"Oh my God-- SHANE! It's GREAT to see you, buddy! Look at you--I'm so damned proud!"
Yeah-- THAT guy, I trusted.
But seriously-- it's a short list. Those who have been following me for a while know it, too. Last year, when meth-cooking squatters moved in next door, pretty much ALL OF YOU said, "Darling, I know this will burn like acid, but you have to call the police."
It didn't actually burn like acid, but watching them all gather around the house next door while they threatened to shoot the guy on the roof did not inspire me with confidence either.
When reports started to emerge across the nation that people of color were being victimized by the police, I was not surprised. I had seen the rampant disrespect in person, to friends and students and I'd been appalled and helpless to stop it. I was relieved that the issue was gaining national attention, because hopefully that would mean racial injustice at the hands of the authorities could be stopped.
Hasn't happened yet. Hadn't happened when I wrote Fish. Needs to happen. Needs to happen in the worst way. Our country needs to fucking grow.
But I still have hope--I really do.
There ARE people like Jackson out there. That kid who came back into my classroom, wearing his uniform, proud as hell--he wasn't going to go out and beat up the people he grew up with.
We need more people like that in the uniform.
So Fish is a reflection of how things are, and how bad they can be--but I also wanted it to be a hope that they can get better.
I hope people see that fervent wish for better in the pages. We need all of it we can get.
Exclusive Excerpt--
Fish Out of Water
He found Dave and Alex out by the parking garage behind the ambulance entrance, sharing a cigarette break.
That was pretty much where he expected to find them this time of day, because they would have screwed each other silly in Alex’s car for the first part of their lunch, and this was their comedown. You learned a lot about the nurses who took care of you on a daily basis.
Dave had given him his twelve-o’clock painkillers and had talked about taking his break with his boyfriend. Alex had changed his catheter bag at two, and he’d always looked freshly laid. It hadn’t been that hard to put together.
“Hey, handsome—you taking care of our property?” Alex asked as Jackson trotted out of the parking garage to greet them. Alex—tiny, perky, and blond as a cheerleader—smoked like he was about to hide the cigarette from his mother.
“It’s not yours anymore,” Jackson said, smiling. “The hospital gave me a full lease on the equipment when I left. You remember the paperwork?”
“Oh no, honey.” Dave was taller, wider, darker in hair and skin, and built like a tank; he wielded his cigarette like a magic wand and camped like a Boy Scout. “We don’t do paperwork.”
Jackson rolled his eyes. “Who needs paperwork when you bitches put out in person, right?”
“You know it, baby,” Alex purred. He drew hard on the cig and then crushed it out in the sand pit. After he’d exhaled smoke, he stepped forward and shook Jackson’s hand. Some of the cheerleader fell away and he gave a genuine smile. “How you doing, hon?” he asked seriously. “The whole hospital is talking about your friend this morning—apparently you stepped on Dr. Snidenhower’s toes.”
The boys knew Kaden, Rhonda, and Jade—they’d been his only visitors over those months of recovery. Jackson had seen Alex and Dave working as he’d been pulling the strings that got K out of the hospital and into the jail—and he’d been grateful.
“Yeah, well, that guy was a jerk when I was here,” Jackson muttered. Hence the nickname Snidenhower. Jackson had it on good authority that Alex and Dave were the only reason he wasn’t walking around with a colostomy bag under his belt. Scheideman was a little overzealous with requesting surgery, and apparently both of Jackson’s boys—as he’d called them by the end—had lobbied fiercely to let Jackson’s body try to heal first. It was a thing for which Jackson would forever be grateful.
“The guy’s a jerk anyway.” Dave flicked his ash into the sand pit, dark fingers curving gracefully. “But that’s not what you’re here to talk about, is it.”
Jackson shook his head. “You know what I’m here to talk about?”
Dave looked over his shoulder to see if anyone else was coming out to the back bay to nurture their filthy habit. Nobody so far, so he gestured Jackson in with a jerk of his chin. “Your boy? The friend who caught the po-po bus? So, Scheideman got pulled off that poor dead kid in the cop’s uni—he was trying to resuscitate him because he didn’t have the balls to call TOD.”
Nobody wanted to call TOD on a cop. Nobody.
“So….”
Dave tsked his impatience but kept going. “So Doc Memphis called TOD, but Scheideman got sicced on Kaden, the hot guy with the cute kids.”
“There was a wife too,” Jackson supplied dryly, mostly to see Dave roll his eyes.
“Right. Anyway, so a guy—not in uniform, but smelled like bacon if you know what I mean—he grabs Scheideman’s arm on the way down the hall, and he’s talking like they’re planning a terrorist attack. Anyway, I got into the room about two steps after them. You were at reception raising six sorts of hell—baby, I just stayed out of your way. Anyway, Scheideman didn’t even look at the chart when he called for the Haldol. He didn’t know your friend had been throwing up—”
“Like a champion,” Alex confirmed. “It’s not that the meds weren’t appreciated, just that, you know, makes it that much harder to figure out if he’d been roofed.”
“Did they run a tox screen?” He’d asked for one—had asked every doctor within shouting distance for one—but that didn’t always mean what he hoped for.
“Honey,” Dave cooed, “would we do you that way?”
Jackson blinked. “Yeah?”
“Yeah, we ran you one—before the Haldol—and no, the doctor didn’t ask for it. We had the blood work in before ol’ Shiny Man opened his mouth.”
Dave dropped his camp for a second. “You were in our unit for months, Jackson. And we saw the marshals there for protective custody until the case got out of court. Honey, if you were there battling for Kaden, screaming for a tox screen, you knew what you were doing.”
Jackson let loose a sigh of relief and managed a smile. “You know, some people don’t believe in guardian angels anymore, but you two give me faith.”
Dave exhaled the last puff and ground his cig in the sand. “Yeah, you say that, bitch, but you never put out.” He winked and nodded to Alex. “Baby, our break’s up. I’ll cover for you if you go get the results from the car.”
Jackson gasped a little, but Dave looked at him meaningfully.
“Go,” he said, his voice dropping. “We made copies. We did the same for you, although I know you don’t remember. The minute the popo came asking for your charts, Alex and I felt a tingle in our short hairs.”
“Wait!” Jackson called, hoping for a break—or a familiar name, at least. “Do you know the name of the cop who was putting weight on Scheideman?”
Dave shrugged, but Alex nodded. “Yeah—name was Owens. Short guy, dark hair, sort of greasy. Wore a uniform. Totally fucking average—I couldn’t have picked him out of a lineup if he was sucking Scheideman’s dick.”
July 28, 2016
Don Quixote
I seem to remember reading all or part of Don Quixote when I was a freshmen in high school--but I don't remember much more than the basics, and the very catchy theme song from Man From La Mancha. If a scene like this happened in the book, I have long forgotten the particulars, and if one didn't, well, I think it should have. In any event, this is, in effect, fanfic. The canon is my own, but the metaphorical figures belong to Miguel de Cervantes.
* * *
It was not well known, but Sancho Panza was a prince in his own kingdom. When he took the pot off his head and dismounted from his own donkey, he cut a proud figure, riding a white horse and wearing a velvet waistcoat with a ruffle around his neck.
"You could have been anyone," Don Quixote bemoaned. They sat in a tiny abandoned shack, before Don Quixote rode into yet another battle. "Look at you, Sancho, masquerading as a peasant. You cut a fine figure of a man--you could change the world."
Sancho waved his hand languorously. "I am a peasant, Don Quixote-- your one delusion is that I was worthy enough to be your squire."
Don Quixote snorted. Sancho Panza was pure nobility, anybody could see it.
"I don't know why you bother with me." He tok a swig of wine and looked woefully at the jar. "I am a foolish old man, and the windmill trade is not what it used to be."
"Don't be stupid," Sancho said, rolling his eyes and taking the jar. It was never good when the Don had too much wine. "You keep the countryside safe from the monsters, my good Don. They might overrun the world if not for your stalwart efforts."
"But what has it earned me? The country people despise me. Millers everywhere curse my name--we can't get decent bread, Sancho, because nobody sees the difference between the windmills that grind the flour and the monsters I slay beyond them. I am a laughing stock, and worse yet, I have betrayed the knights I so longed to be like."
"Betrayed how, my lord?"
"I was not perfect. I injured a windmill. I toppled a stone--how could I, Sancho! I wanted so badly for the giant beyond to be the object of my lance!"
"Well that is the nature of tilting at windmills, even if they are but giants, my lord. You tilt at so many, so very successfully I might add. Look at the shadows of your slain giants, lying about the hills. Look at how safe the people are, when the night encroaches, because they have the stories of your exploits to give them warmth and light!"
"But the windmill, Sancho! The one windmill!"
"Can be repaired!" Sancho laughed kindly. "Look at it--you broke no walls. No one was injured beyond repair. A rock fell on some man's toe--it happens."
"He did not deserve to be hurt," Don Quixote said sincerely. "That was my doing."
"Well, yes. But would you not slay anymore giants in the fear of the damage to one windmill?"
"How do I even know they are giants?" Don Quixote wailed. "To hear the wails of the townspeople, you would think I was more of an ass than my donkey, going about my sacred work!"
"How do I know they are giants?" Sancho's voice rose indignantly. "How do I know they were giants? Because they frightened the children, and the women and men! Because families took comfort when you slayed them. Because families rose with pitchforks and knives, urged by your valor to never be cowed by giants again! Why do you think I follow you, my darling don? What is it you think I see that is not there? I see someone with a heart as big as the hills and the sunset, put on his armor and mount his steed and go charging into the heart of many a worthy battle! It is sunset, my lord--look at the shadows of the fallen and know that you are their master!"
"You have your own city, Sancho," Quixote said quietly. "You do not need to stay here, nursing an old man through his wine."
"And old soldier through his wine," Sancho corrected, pouring them both a half cup. "And I slay my own giants, never you mind. My giants are well slayed, my town is in order. I am where I belong to be before a battle--at my lord's side."
"A foolish old man with too much wine," Quixote said woefully, tilting his tin cup and washing down the dregs.
"A brave and valiant man, who shall wake with the sun and slay his next dragon."
"What if I harm a windmill, Sancho?"
"What if you never tilt again?"
Quixote holds his hands to his chest. "Oh! My heart! Tis brittle, old, and gray!"
"See, my lord? You must venture forth in the morning. All shall be well if you just lift your lance to your saddle, and tilt away."
"I shall do so, Sancho, if you promise to mind your own kingdom tomorrow, after we have stayed the giant."
"That is a bargain well struck."
Sancho shook Don Quixote's hand and then draped a knitted blanket over his shoulders and gave his shoulder a warm squeeze. The old man nodded off into a doze, but Sancho was not fooled. In the morning, the day would dawn, bright and crisp and his lord Don Quixote would go slay another giant.
There was none better at it, in spite of his protests.
But Sancho could do without the pep talk the night before. He really DID have a kingdom to run, and it was the pep talk that proved most exhausting.
* * *
It was not well known, but Sancho Panza was a prince in his own kingdom. When he took the pot off his head and dismounted from his own donkey, he cut a proud figure, riding a white horse and wearing a velvet waistcoat with a ruffle around his neck.
"You could have been anyone," Don Quixote bemoaned. They sat in a tiny abandoned shack, before Don Quixote rode into yet another battle. "Look at you, Sancho, masquerading as a peasant. You cut a fine figure of a man--you could change the world."
Sancho waved his hand languorously. "I am a peasant, Don Quixote-- your one delusion is that I was worthy enough to be your squire."
Don Quixote snorted. Sancho Panza was pure nobility, anybody could see it.
"I don't know why you bother with me." He tok a swig of wine and looked woefully at the jar. "I am a foolish old man, and the windmill trade is not what it used to be."
"Don't be stupid," Sancho said, rolling his eyes and taking the jar. It was never good when the Don had too much wine. "You keep the countryside safe from the monsters, my good Don. They might overrun the world if not for your stalwart efforts."
"But what has it earned me? The country people despise me. Millers everywhere curse my name--we can't get decent bread, Sancho, because nobody sees the difference between the windmills that grind the flour and the monsters I slay beyond them. I am a laughing stock, and worse yet, I have betrayed the knights I so longed to be like."
"Betrayed how, my lord?"
"I was not perfect. I injured a windmill. I toppled a stone--how could I, Sancho! I wanted so badly for the giant beyond to be the object of my lance!"
"Well that is the nature of tilting at windmills, even if they are but giants, my lord. You tilt at so many, so very successfully I might add. Look at the shadows of your slain giants, lying about the hills. Look at how safe the people are, when the night encroaches, because they have the stories of your exploits to give them warmth and light!"
"But the windmill, Sancho! The one windmill!"
"Can be repaired!" Sancho laughed kindly. "Look at it--you broke no walls. No one was injured beyond repair. A rock fell on some man's toe--it happens."
"He did not deserve to be hurt," Don Quixote said sincerely. "That was my doing."
"Well, yes. But would you not slay anymore giants in the fear of the damage to one windmill?"
"How do I even know they are giants?" Don Quixote wailed. "To hear the wails of the townspeople, you would think I was more of an ass than my donkey, going about my sacred work!"
"How do I know they are giants?" Sancho's voice rose indignantly. "How do I know they were giants? Because they frightened the children, and the women and men! Because families took comfort when you slayed them. Because families rose with pitchforks and knives, urged by your valor to never be cowed by giants again! Why do you think I follow you, my darling don? What is it you think I see that is not there? I see someone with a heart as big as the hills and the sunset, put on his armor and mount his steed and go charging into the heart of many a worthy battle! It is sunset, my lord--look at the shadows of the fallen and know that you are their master!"
"You have your own city, Sancho," Quixote said quietly. "You do not need to stay here, nursing an old man through his wine."
"And old soldier through his wine," Sancho corrected, pouring them both a half cup. "And I slay my own giants, never you mind. My giants are well slayed, my town is in order. I am where I belong to be before a battle--at my lord's side."
"A foolish old man with too much wine," Quixote said woefully, tilting his tin cup and washing down the dregs.
"A brave and valiant man, who shall wake with the sun and slay his next dragon."
"What if I harm a windmill, Sancho?"
"What if you never tilt again?"
Quixote holds his hands to his chest. "Oh! My heart! Tis brittle, old, and gray!"
"See, my lord? You must venture forth in the morning. All shall be well if you just lift your lance to your saddle, and tilt away."
"I shall do so, Sancho, if you promise to mind your own kingdom tomorrow, after we have stayed the giant."
"That is a bargain well struck."
Sancho shook Don Quixote's hand and then draped a knitted blanket over his shoulders and gave his shoulder a warm squeeze. The old man nodded off into a doze, but Sancho was not fooled. In the morning, the day would dawn, bright and crisp and his lord Don Quixote would go slay another giant.
There was none better at it, in spite of his protests.
But Sancho could do without the pep talk the night before. He really DID have a kingdom to run, and it was the pep talk that proved most exhausting.
